


When the Sun Don't Rise

by wrendomfacts



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Porn, Porn With Plot, Stony smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:19:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7033132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrendomfacts/pseuds/wrendomfacts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Are you okay. A simple question like that shouldn't derail a man like himself. But it does. Oh, it sure as hell does, and he can feel the tears even before they start to fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Sun Don't Rise

 

**Why?**

 

The door slams. It's cold outside, but he can't feel it, and lets the helmet slide off the side of his face, fingertips caught in the eye holes. The carpet is soft, almost springy, and he sinks to his knees without even realizing it.

' _Rough day?'_

That's what _he_ would've said, if he were here. Lounging on the couch, eyes ablaze, whiskey glass rubbed soft around the rim by too many nights alone. His knuckles would have bruises, from countless days spent toying with metal and hammers and blazing hot iron, and he'd look Steve in the eye with a bit of a glint, shoot him that smile, the one they used to reserve for nights like tonight, nights when somehow, he just _knew_ what Steve needed, and he'd ask, ' _Rough day?'_. 

 

But he's not here. Steve knows that. He's not an idiot, contrary to popular belief right now. There's snow on his boots, and for a moment, Steve almost convinces himself it's because he's back in New York. He can almost believe that he's standing in that long, sleek living room, orange couches catching the setting sun bouncing off of white-covered pine trees. And _he_  would come down the stairs in a bathrobe, Steve having to fight down that impulse to run to him and press him against the metal railing. Almost is the key word here. Instead, Steve's logic-based brain keeps him from going insane, nailed down here, stuck. 

 

 Deep down, he knows he could've left, mind protesting that, 'No, the funeral was months ago', but he doesn't listen to that. He can't listen to that. Steve feels the pull of tears behind his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose with his left fingertips, pulling hard at the skin, cracking his too-dry hands to the point where they bleed a bit. He bites his lips, cutting off a gasping sob, and exhales, shuddering, instead.

"Pull it together, Rogers." He forces himself to stand up, to  do something other than sit and mope. Absentmindedly, he reaches for the shield, and finds it isn't there. Of course it's not. Steve doesn't get drunk, but if he could, oh he would be taking full advantage of that right about now. The room is dully lit, four windows, all with the shades pulled tight. It's freezing, probably because the heat in his crappy apartment has never worked right, but Steve doesn't care. He is standing, but unsteadily, and a wave of foggy sleepiness rolls over him, giving his knees just the push they need.

' _He also said to go for your legs_!'

And that's another stab to the heart. Steve goes down sideways, ending up slouched against the ratty sofa this place has, all beigey green and rough to the touch. His mask sits a few feet in front of his outstretched thigh, and he takes a deep breath, wincing.

 

' _If he meant so much to you, why'd you leave him?'_

_'I nearly killed him, Bucky! Can you blame me?!'_

_'Actually, I can. I wouldn't have been that stupid. I didn't leave your ass in the river!'_

_'Yeah, but with him it's totally different!'_

_'Is it.'_

_'What?'_

_'Is it really all that different?'_

_'Well, yeah, I mean- Wait, Bucky, what are you doing-'_

_'What I was told to do.'_

_'No, Bucky, wait- this- this isn't you- please, you gotta believe me-'  
_

_'Don't worry, Captain Rogers. It'll all be over soon.'_

_'Buck- Buck, stop. Move your hands. I don't wanna hurt you-'_

_'I don't think you can.'_

 

"No!" And he's awake. This is how it's been going. Every. Freaking. Day. Get home, collapse, power nap of, like, thirty seconds, nightmares, wake up. Steve stares at the ceiling fan, spinning lazy, creaking circles, and wonders how he ever let it get this bad. How he ever- "Oh, God-" His voice cracks, and he's crying, tears welling in his eyes, and it's almost like he's back at Peggy's funeral, standing, a soldier on the outside, curled like a scared little boy inside. They don't fall, just like at Peggy's, but then again, they never seem to. They didn't with Sam. Or Clint. Or the Ant-dude. They didn't even fall with Wanda. And it's been three years. There's no way they'd fall now. "I was supposed to protect you." His throat hurts, like someone's burning it with a metal rod. "I was supposed to do my job." He rakes a hand through his hair, spiking it accidentally, and struggles to his feet, a pained hiss whistling from his mouth.

' _Sometimes, I want to punch you in your perfect teeth_.'

And Steve trips, _his_ voice echoing in his head, and careens  to the left, crashing  into the divider between the kitchen from the living room. He leaves a large, human-shaped dent in the drywall, and makes a mental note to fix it later. He leans against it for a second, needing the support, and then keeps moving, making a promise to himself that he'll clean up and make dinner in about an hour, a promise he hasn't been able to keep for years.

 

His room is colder than the rest of the house, if that's even possible, and he staggers to the doorway, falling against it, panting. His bed has those perfect military corners, an old quilt draped across it, cream white sheets pulled crisp and tight, pillows puffed just so, and he stares, eyes glazing over, taking him back, to four or five days before.

 

Steve'd been trying to drown himself in alcohol. He'd known it wouldn't work, he was designed like that on purpose, but damned if he wasn't going to try and push his limits. He'd eased his aching body down into an old, brown recliner and had switched on the ancient TV, still sporting an antenna.

' _And now, to a broadcast live from Siberia.'_ The camera switched from the old man to a young woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Peggy. All brown eyes and soft curls. Steve stiffened, watching, as snow flakes licked her hat and gloves, turning her cheeks a striking pink. She was stood outside something that looked strangely familiar to Steve, but he couldn't quite pinpoint exactly where from.

 _'Thanks, Jeff. Today marks the one year anniversary of the death of one James Buchanan Barnes, the notorious Winter Soldier. The man became part of a terrorist cell based in Russia...'_ Steve's mouth had curled into a snarl, teeth bared in a manic smile, and he'd shook his head, tongue claiming his sixteenth or seventeenth beer. _That explains it._

' _If only they knew_.' And he could've gone on, just thinking out loud, about how he'd really died, that it wasn't suicide or a rival. That it was a best friend, a man who had saved him from the ashes in the first place.

 

But he didn't continue. Rather, he couldn't because that's when the knocking started. He'd watched his hand pick up the remote and press the off button, moving as if caught in molasses. He doesn't really know how long he sat in that recliner, letting the smell of old lady envelop him, but it was long enough that the banging got progressively more persistent, until a voice finally filtered through the door.

 _'Steve, it's been months. Please... let, let me in.'_ He could picture her face, leaning against the white washed door, one arm fingering her belt, the other being used as a support force, fiery hair draped over one shoulder, and Steve had suddenly felt sick. But he'd stood up anyway, had unlatched the deadbolt- _if it's an assassin pretending to be you, I don't really care-_ and had let in swing wide.

 

But she wasn't what he'd imagined. She looked broken, tiny, like a daisy that had been stepped on one too many times.

' _Hey, Nat.'  
_

_'Hey Steve.'_

 

It was forced. Even he could tell that much.

_'Uh, come in, I guess.'_

_'No, I-, I'm good.'_ Her purple turtleneck caught the sparks of hundreds of tiny snowflakes being bathed in the last few rays of daylight, wind blowing into Cap's open apartment. His housing area is set up like a cheap, two story motel, with an iron balcony and fire-escape style steps. She'd shoved her hands in the pockets of her pants, looking anywhere but at Steve.

 _'What do you want, Nat.'_ Her stricken eyes were all the answer he'd needed, and his resolve had faltered, breath picking up as he leaned against the door for support. _'No. I don't want to- I can't, Nat.'  
_

_'Steve, I know. I know you don't, but I- I just had to do the same thing to someone I loved.'_ Steve's arm slipped.

 _'Not- not Bruce-'_ She nodded. He felt the familiar pull of tears behind his eyes. _'But I didn't even- I don_ _'t-_ _Oh, Nat. Good God._ _'_

She didn't say anything, just looked down, and then lifted her head to the cracked and peeling hallway ceiling, nodding.

 _'Yeah. And to think it could have- we could have-'_ Her voice broke, and for a tiny second, Steve thought that he saw her shoulders shaking. She sniffed, cleared her throat, and met his gaze. _'I'm leaving, Steve.'_ He'd started a bit at the suddenness, but then his soldier-persona had taken over, and his spine had straightened against his will, making him that much taller.

 _'So I guess this is goodbye, then.'_ He'd tried for a smile. She'd wiped a finger across her eyes, nodded again, and stuck out a gloved hand, and he'd taken it, shaking lightly. 

 _'Good luck, Captain Rogers.'_ And then she'd walked away, down the steps, and into the parking lot.

 

Steve had stood, shocked, for long enough that his toes had started to go numb from the cold, and then he'd turned, walked inside and locked the deadbolt again. His knees gave out.

 

Faces had flashed through his mind- _Peter, broken, spine severed, and his final smile up at Steve and the others, choking on his own blood- Clint, machete splitting his body with a clean line, his mouth open in a surprised 'o'. He'd been shaking when he'd finally let go, the whisper of his kids and wife left empty on still lips- Sam, wings short-circuiting midway through a routine flyby, driving like a rocket into the asphalt. The crater in the rock was the only reminder of him by the time Steve had gotten there. The rest had burned- Ant-dude, crushed- Rhodey, paralyzed- Wanda. Hanging in the shower stall. He'd found her, and his screams still echo through his head every so often._

 

Steve's knees start to shake, and he blearily realizes that he's panting, heavy, wet gasps of air leaving his mouth in panicked grunts. He digs his nails into the palm of his hand, clenching, and wills himself to calm down. Losing it now isn't going to do him any good.

"Come on, Rogers. Come on," He stands up straighter, and takes a cautious step away from the doorway, swaying. After three more, he's almost to his adjoining bathroom, which is really where he needs to get to.

 

No matter what he'd said to himself after Wanda, he can't just stop trying to protect people. It's not what he used to do, no more 'let's save the world', because, as far as he knows, he's the only one left, and that just wouldn't work. It's mostly bank robbers getting their just desserts.

 

Once outside the bathroom door, he lets himself go on autopilot, falling the last few feet so that he actually is _in_ the bathroom, and shuts the door, locking it in a practiced, habitual flick of his wrist. Hands move to the faucet, pushing down, and the stream of hot water is welcome on his arm, wetting the fabric and washing some of the sweat off his suit. It takes him a good five to six minutes to actually get said suit off, wincing in barely dulled pain as he passes a hand over his ribs. He doesn't give himself the usual once over until he's completely naked and under the water, warmth spitting at his back.

 

These guys put up more of a fight than he's used to, and he hadn't been prepared for it. A gash, turned reddish brown with a half healed scab, stretches the length of his right side, and he bites his lip to keep from crying out as he shakily places his fingers over it. There's probably a couple broken ribs under there, maybe two, and every breath is needle-sharp and painful. He leans his head against the wall, turned sideways in the stall, and lets his mind start to wander.

 

_'I'm sorry Tony. You know I don't want to do this, but he's my friend.'_

_'So was I.'_

 

Steve's eyes fly open, and he's curling in on himself, trying to get as small as possible. Any memory of _him_ hurts too much for Steve's brain to accurately process it. Instead, he just shuts down.

"Why did I give you up for him? Was I really that naive?" He only remembers flashes, of Tony, beaten on the ground, arc reactor almost totally burned out, and the feeling of complete dread, of this crushing guilt, because Steve had known. He'd known, as that shield was coming down into Tony's chest, he'd known that, technically, breaking the arc reactor was like stabbing Tony through the heart, but he hadn't _cared._ All he'd been thinking about, like one of those propaganda things blared over loudspeakers in Nazi Germany that he used to hear when he'd served, was _Save James Buchanan Barnes._ "I killed you. Jesus, Tony. I killed you." The build up of tears is there, as usual, and for the first time, Steve wants to hurt himself. He wants to do something, _anything,_ to feel an emotion other than the one left behind from angry, unresolved touches, and unspoken words.

 

_'I'm dead now, too. You're all alone.'  
_

It echos through the bathroom, startling Steve, and he presses harder against the tile wall, water long run cold.

"Shut up,"

' _No. You killed me. I watched you put a bullet, my bullet, in my brain.'_

And as much as he wants to dispute it, he knows he can't. While it may have been self-defense, it doesn't make it feel any better. Doesn't soften the fact that he'd dislocated his best friend's arm in one clean sweep, taken his gun and fired it in between his eyes. 

 

It also doesn't change the fact that he'd done it because Bucky had been relapsing.

 

Steve had offered. Bucky was de-iced for the second time in his life, with no where to go, and Steve had _offered_. It had been _his_ idea. He lived alone, a tiny apartment in Siberia, just a few minutes from Bucky's facility. Bucky agreed, of course. It was just days later, when they were lounging around, that Steve realized he'd made a huge mistake. 

 

The doctors had warned him that Bucky might relapse. That he hadn't been under long enough for the memories of his Winter Soldier days to be completely buried. They told him Bucky should stay frozen for an 'extended period of time'. When Steve had asked how long that was, the doctors had merely shrugged. So Steve had said screw it, and took Bucky back to his place. At first, Bucky was fine. It was just like old times. He shaved, they cracked jokes, and even rolled around in Steve's bed a few times.

 

So much changed in the span of a day. That day happened to be about eight months prior. The problem wasn't that Bucky relapsed, out of the blue. It was that the doctors hadn't told Steve what the relapsing would entail. They also didn't tell him what to do. That night, cornered in his own apartment, Bucky tuned into a nightmare right before Steve's eyes. He remembers screaming at Bucky, scuttling away from him like a crab. He remembers taking the gun, the sound of splitting bone echoing behind angry words, screams of _'Buck please!'_ and the response of _'You are my mission!'_. He remembers the feeling of the metal digging into his palm, the harsh reality of Buck's skull coming into contact with the barrel. He tries not to remember Bucky's eyes, feverish in the setting sun.

' _I'm with you 'till the end of the line, pal.'_ Steve tries to forget the tears that were streaming down his face when those words left his lips, in a desperate plea to remember. He tries to forget the feeling of hope when Bucky momentarily looked as though he recognized Steve. He tries to forget that Bucky merely shrugged, and pushed his forehead against the shaking barrel a bit harder.

_'Guess we've hit it.'_

 

Steve exhales, trembling, and lays a hand on the faucet, pulling up this time, draining the tub and turning off the shower head. The sink feels like it's a mile away, but he has long enough arms that he can reach, curling his fingers around the porcelain and pulling, dragging his lower body behind him.

 

His sweats and t-shirt sit on the edge of the counter, squarely folded, and he bends at the waist as much as he dares, opening up the medicine cabinet under the sink. His prize is a roll of gauze, medical tape and antiseptic. It only takes him about three painful minutes to wrap his side to the best of his abilities, trying not to imagine how much easier it would be with another person. He uses his teeth to rip the end of the gauze, taping it.

 

Straightening up doesn't do his back much good, and he groans, placing a hand on the bottom of his spine. He reaches with the other and grabs the white shirt, tugging it over his head, hair catching on the collar. The sweat pants are too big for him, he knows that, but doesn't care right now, stepping into them gingerly, gray fabric crumpling around his toes. They drag behind him as he walks, cuffs completely covering his feet, and he tightens the elastic string in the waistband, cinching it and tying the ends together. He doesn't notice the knocking until he's standing in his room, suit thrown haphazardly in his hamper.

 

Without the shield, it offers no real protection, as displayed by the lovely scar he's going to have after the cut on his side heals. When the first one sounds, he freezes, becoming acutely aware of the fact that he's not wearing boxers under his sweats, soft gray fabric moving around his dick, and he bends at the knees, sinking about three inches to pick up the baseball bat sitting by the door of his room.

 

It's a method of self preservation. Probably being the last living avenger comes with some dangers, and he's trying to be prepared for them. The bat goes up around the back of his head as he slowly moves through his living room, sidestepping around the recliner. The knocking is sporadic, starting, then stopping, in small, urgent beats. Steve stands, poised on tiptoes, staring, in the best fighting stance he can muster. Inching doesn't even begin to describe how he moves the last foot or two, barely bending his knees, arms going rock solid, his brain back in World War Two. He has to crouch a bit in order to see into the peep hole, but once his eyes catch the top of a head, he stumbles backwards.

 

The knocking starts again, and Steve feels his biceps unlock, turning to jelly, and his shoulder sag, arms hanging heavy at his sides. The bat starts to fall, slipping from sweaty fingertips, and he turns in a slow circle, letting his other hand push through soaking wet hair.

 

_That's not possible._

 

But he has to know. So he opens the door, sliding the deadbolt out by the chain, and there he is, in all his disheveled glory, hair spiked six ways to Sunday. The bat hits the ground with a clang.

 

He's in a suit, a normal one, with tailored corners and ironed lapels, and Steve almost laughs, because _holy crap, he looks like he's going to a business meeting_. The soft glow of the arc reactor is barely visible through the thick, woolly material.

"Hey, Cap."

And Steve _reacts._ It's visceral, like his body's been waiting, patiently dormant, for years, and he can't even form a coherent reply. He just falls forwards, letting his too-long arms catch under Tony's, lifted in surprise, and his hands clench in a fist, resting on the last knob of Tony's spine as he molds himself to Tony, tugging himself forwards. Steve buries his nose in Tony's neck, and takes a choked off breath through his mouth, absorbing a scent that can only be described as _home._

 

"I missed you t-" Steve's finger presses against his lips, and Tony's eyes widen in surprise. He lets his own arms lower onto Steve's back, and his head dips down, chin touching the back of Steve's neck. He releases a shuddering sigh, closing his eyes. Steve is shaking against him, and Tony is pretty sure he's crying, but doesn't say anything, just holds him.

 

Steve isn't crying, more like trying to, and his face is scrunched with the force of it, lips curled up and nose squished, soft gasps puffing out of his mouth. Tony starts moving a hand to rub down Steve's back, hesitating the briefest of seconds, and Steve feels the weight of all the pent up emotion in the warmth hovering over his shoulder blades. Then there's fingertips on his spine, lightly tracing the knobs, and Steve hugs him tighter.

"Damn you," He bites out, tongue catching on the wool shoulder of Tony's overcoat. There's anger there, and it's palpable in Steve's mouth, bitter.

"Damn me what?" It's murmured into the back of his neck, where it meets his spine, and despite himself, Steve shudders. _I'm gonna punch him._

"I-" But something stops him, lodged in the back of his throat like a golf-ball.

 

His fingers unclench, and he grips Tony's hips, lightly pushing him away.  Hands drop, and Steve takes a step backwards, putting personal space back between them. "Never mind. It's nothing." Tony cocks his head, and in the light from the street lamp outside, Steve can just barely see the flash of white teeth as he grins.

"Alright, Cap. Whatever you say. You gonna let me in, or what?"

"Oh, uh, yeah. Yeah." And there's a whoosh of air next to him as Tony strides through the open door. Steve sags a bit, shaking his head. _This outta be interesting._

 

 

Tony is already sprawled on the couch when Steve comes in, legs spread wide. Steve rolls his eyes, locking the door behind himself, and gives an exasperated groan, raising his arm and dropping it. "Yeah, sure. Just... make yourself at home."

"Don't mind if I do."

"Don't you-" But the clunk of Tony's dress shoes is all the answer Steve needs as the heels come in contact with the coffee table. He turns slowly, eyes closed, and lifts a finger, holding it next to his head. " _Please_ tell me your shoes are _not_ on my table."

"You're _so_ over-dramatic." That reply prompts Steve to look, and _Jesus, Tony better be glad I dropped the bat._ Tony's spread eagle on his back, arms stretched the length of the couch, his feet propped on two magazines sitting on the _goddamn table._ "But yes, they are." He nods down at them proudly, and Steve feels his mouth twist again. He bites his lip, and puts his hands on his hips, trying to keep the smile at bay. "What?"

 

Steve gives him a once over, smirks, and gives a half laugh.

"Nothing. It's... nothing." There's an awkward pause, and Steve realizes that he's staring, etching this man into his retinas. "Uh," He mutters, itching a hand down the back of his neck. "You want anything? A beer?"

"Sure. Why not." That cocky smile is back. He walks across the living room to the kitchen, trying not to limp or press a hand to his side.

 

"What happened to your divider?"

"What?" And Steve stops to look down and to the right, wincing, because _how did I manage to forget about that._ The dent is very obviously in the shape of his hips, and he tries for a grin, turning to Tony. "Tripped?" But Tony glares at him, frowning.

"Tripped, huh?"

"Yup." Steve turns his back, hoping to defuse the situation, and hears Tony huff.

 

Steve bends at the waist, ducking his head to reach inside the fridge, but forgets about his side.He goes down on one knee, gasping, and his hand twists, gripping the side of the door with enough strength that it bends under his touch, fingers melting their shape into the metal. "Sh _it._ "

"Ooo, Captain. Language." Tony waits for a reply, smug smile crossing over his features. And he waits. And waits.

 

"Cap?" Nothing. With a grunt, he heaves himself to a standing position, cautiously taking a step towards the open door to the kitchen. He can see the top of Steve's head from behind the breakfast bar, built into the severely crumpled divider, and gives a muted sigh of relief. "Don't really know what I was expecting, you di-"

"Ton _y,_ " Steve's back arches, and Tony steps back a bit, surprised.

"Steve, are you-" But then Steve pulls his head up, teeth bared, eyebrows perked up in the center, baby-blues in obvious pain, and Tony _moves_. He doesn't think about the consequences of what he's doing, just drops, fingers finding handholds on Cap's body, hoisting him under the arms. Steve chokes on air, and either water from his hair, or, more likely, sweat, drips down his chin, jaw muscles standing at attention from clenching his teeth so tightly. "Okay, big boy. Up we go." And yeah, Steve is totally gonna punch him.

 

 

"Wait, wait, Tony, _stop_." And Steve is sliding, a muffled hiss whispering through his teeth. Tony nods, bracing a hand on Steve's right pec, which jumps under the light touch, and grinds his molars  together. Steve can't support most of his own weight, head falling backwards, mouth agape, as a high pitched whine of pain leaves his mouth.

"Come on," Tony grunts, and Steve feels his neck tighten with the force of his grimace.

"A _h,_ " Tony half drags him to the old recliner, letting him drop. Steve's hands come up, landing on the arm rests, and he tries to give Tony a sated, half smile.

 

"Your tendons are too tight," The murmur reaches his ears before there's the side of a face in his line of vision, and Steve feels his eyes widen. Tony's beard tickles his chin as fingers brush against the front of his throat, pressing lightly against his Adams apple. Steve does his best not to swallow, but he can't help it, and does anyway, feeling it bob against Tony's calluses. He looks up then, and Tony's worried face is peering down at him, and he has the wild thought that if he _just leaned up, just a fraction of an inch-_ But then the moment's gone, and Tony stands, warmth leaving Steve's windpipe, and he takes a step back. Steve's chest rises in a huge breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in the first place.

 

There's a long pause, Tony running a hand through his hair, Cap trying to take even breaths without crying out. They look everywhere but at each other for a solid minute, not saying anything. Then Tony coughs, breaking the silence like a gunshot, and Steve jumps. "Okay!" He claps his hands together, spinning in a circle. "That was awkward. I'm gonna grab some alcohol!" He raises his eyebrows, opening his arms and cocking his head slightly.

"Yeah, uh," Steve winces, touching his side gingerly. "Good, _ah_ , good idea. They're in the fridge. First carton to your left." Tony shoots him a thumbs up, and turns away.

 

Steve lets out a sigh, leaning back and stretching his abdomen. A shaking hand comes to rest on his ribs, and he feels a little bit of wetness seeping through his bandages. _Please don't be blood. Please don't be blood_. His fingers come away clean, and he breathes in sweet relief. _Thank god.  
_

"Do you have anything besides stale beer?"

"Uh, check," He bares his teeth, inching up into more of a sitting position. "Check the cabinet above the sink." He hears the doors open, and then there's a shout, clinking of glass, and the sound of pouring liquid. Steve closes his eyes.

 

An hour or two pass. Steve is still nursing that first glass that Tony'd given him, slowly sipping the very top of the liquid, watching. He's been meaning to ask Tony something since the second he'd walked in the door, but Tony's been too sober. So, Steve's formulated a plan. There are a few perks to being designed to not get drunk, and he's pretty sure this is one of them. Get Tony as drunk as possible, ask away, and he'll get honest answers out of him. "Hey, Tony?"

"Hm?" Tony's eyes glance up through his lashes, tongue flicking out to wet his lips and _Jesus I'm staring again._

"Uh, I, uh-"

"Uh huh?" Tony puts the glass down on the end table a bit too hard, leaning forwards on his elbows.

"I wanted, to, um, ask you a, uh, question?"

"Me first."

 

And taken aback doesn't even begin to describe it. Steve is practically pushed down into the recliner, and his mouth falls open slightly. Hands go up, fingers splayed, and he huffs out a laugh.

"Have at it."

"Are you okay?"

 

And if he was surprised before, he _sure_ as hell doesn't know what to do now. Steve feels his eyes widen, and he tilts forwards, mimicking Tony's exact position, elbows on his knees, hands clasped in his lap.

"What?" Steve's eyes squint, forehead crunched in the middle, bottom half of his jaw jutting out. One eyebrow quirks, and the vein in his eyelid twitches.

"Are. You. Okay?" A simple question. Steve should be able to answer that, knows exactly _how_ to answer that. But the words are stuck in his throat. Tears press against the back of his eyes, and he shuts them, pinching the inside of his wrist.

_'Bucky? Bucky, please c-'_

_'I'm sorry, sir. He's gone.'_

_'But I, I didn't mean- I didn't want- oh, God.'_

 

Tony's staring at him, head cocked, and Steve has the sneaking suspicion that he's said something to him. His eyes refocus. "What?"

"I swear to god, Captain Rogers, after that," He swirls his fingers around in the direction of Steve. "Little reaction, if you tell me you're okay, I will shoot you." He laughs. Tony doesn't.

"Alright." He raises his hands in mock defeat. "Guilty as charged. Maybe I'm not okay." _And wow, I really didn't mean to say that.  
_

 

"Care to indulge a man?"

"Not really."

"Well, you dick-"

"Language." Tony half grins, surprise painting his features rosy, and twists, reaching around for the glass.

"Well, you ignorant sonofagun. Is that better?" Tony glances up from taking a sip, then gently sets it down again, taken down a peg by the somber, almost thoughtful frown on Steve's face, dark brown eyelashes fanning onto his cheekbones.

"I watched him die, Tony." He looks up, meets Tony's worried eyes, and sighs. " I called the ambulance, I-I got him to the hospital. But they couldn't save him." He stares at his hands, curling them into fists. "How am I supposed to come back from that?"

 

"You don't." It's quiet and muttered and Steve _desperately_ wants to believe he heard wrong. "You don't come back from that. I didn't."

"Rhodey?"

"Who else?" Steve hears the ice clink in Tony's glass as he finishes off his fourth or fifth. "The doctors said he'd be fine, once the PT started to kick in. Guess they were wrong."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"Yeah, well. If it wasn't for you, he'd still be alive, so." Steve's pretty sure that Tony doesn't mean for that to slip, but anger clouds his field of vision anyway, a hazy reddish glow.

 

"Okay." The word turns in his mouth, staining his lips. It has a dangerous edge to it. "My turn for questions."

"Fine-"

"Fine." Tony leans back, setting the scotch on the side table again, and does his best to look relaxed.

"Shoot."

 

"Why?" It's a rasp, and it's quiet at best, but Tony stiffens visibly, shoulders rising.

"Why what?" He doesn't really look at Steve, just mutters like the words are gasoline that's somehow made it's way into his mouth.

"Why," Steve struggles onto an elbow, scowl forming again, teeth pressed down tightly against the pain that breathing is causing. "Why all of it? Why disagree with me, just to start a fight? Why run once it ended? Why leave without telling any of us, without telling _me_? Why abandon us, Mr. Stark?" He spits it, venomous and angry.

 

"Jesus," The whisper barely reaches Steve. "What do you want me to say, Steve?" Tony flicks his gaze up, meeting Steve's, eyes getting that red film on them again, and for a terrifying moment, Steve thinks he might fall forwards and onto him. "I'm sorry?" His face twists, an incredulous smirk, and he gives a bitter laugh. "Been there," Arms gesture, wrists roll. "Done that."

"No, Tony. I want you to be straight with me." Steve takes a steadying breath, stiffening his abs.

"Straight with you?" _That laugh again._ "I'm trying, Captain." The last word is spat, mocking, and Steve _really_ wants to punch _him_ in _his_ perfect teeth.

"Was it worth it?"

 

Tony looks taken aback, the hate and defensiveness slowly softening to something more _him_ , more venerable, but then it's gone.

"What?"

"I said," Steve bites the side of his tongue, hoisting himself into a sitting position, and feels a drip of sweat run down the back of his neck and disappear into the collar of his shirt. "Was. It. Worth. It?" Tony rolls his eyes and crosses his arms over his chest, covering the light emanating from the middle.

"Captain fucking America is asking me this? Of all the people- Oh, just go screw yourself." Cap stares at him, eyes narrowing, and for a second, Tony thinks he might be in for one hell of a beating.

"Tell me. Right now."

"Oh, I'm beginning to want you to make me."

 

But then Tony's being lifted, back catching on the doorjamb behind him, a surprised gasp bouncing through the room. Steve's face is now a few inches lower than his own, and with a stab of shocked shame, Tony realizes that his toes are no longer touching the ground. Steve has one hand braced against the arc reactor, the other hanging limply because his entire forearm is pressing against Tony's throat, chin resting on Steve's wrist. His teeth are bared, and he's panting, sweat dripping off his eyebrow and down his chin, jaw muscles standing at full attention.

"Was it?"

 

And Tony's eyes go unfocused, wetness pooling on their surfaces, probably defacing the brown, and he shakes his head as best he can.

"No," It's a whisper, his vocal chords crumpled, the words distorted.

"What?" Steve cocks his head, confusion oozing off him, plain as day, pushing slightly harder into Tony's sternum, the arc reactor clinking against his fingernails

"It wasn't, Steve. It wasn't worth it." Steve feels his eyebrows dip by the corners and come up in the middle, the way they do when he's nervous or upset. But Tony's not finished. "It never was. I lost the one thing that means the most to me in the world."

"What?"

"You."

 

It's so raw, so concentrated, and Steve doesn't know what to do, what to say. The anger melts into something else entirely, something so strong that he barely gets out a reply. He flares his nostrils, drops his gaze, and widens his stance, taking a deep breath. Crinkles form at the corners of his eyes, and he locks his knees. Then he looks up so fast that his eyelashes hit his eyebrows, and something inside him, some kind of barrier, breaks.

"Oh, god, Tony,"

 

And then his hands are dropping and fingers are gripping at the flesh under Tony's arm, lifting him higher against the door. Steve's lips are on Tony's, and the two of them are kissing like the world is ending and this is the last chance they'll have at human contact forever, and _quick, don't waste it,_ and Tony's toes curl in midair. Steve's mouth makes a sound as it leaves Tony's, noses bumping, and Tony's feet hit the ground with a thud.

 

"What?" Steve holds up a finger, silencing him, and backs up. Tony sighs. 

"I can't." It's a pained hiss.

"Yes, you can."  Steve looks like a caged animal; caught between ripping off Tony's suit and running. Tony slowly approaches him, feeling his pulse pick up at the way Steve takes his eyes down Tony's torso. "You can, Captain." That seems to be the push he needed.

 

 

Trembling gasps move between them as Steve picks Tony up, taking him by surprise. Steve's fingers clench the bottom strand of Tony's hair and pull. Tony's spine connects with the wall again. Bitten lips start to slide against one another, and Steve sinks his incisors into the cracks in Tony's. Blood nips at Steve's tongue, and he pulls back. His eyes go wide, confused, and he brings up one hand to Tony's mouth. Tony's laugh rings in his ears.

"Well, Captain. Seems like you have a rougher side than I'd realized." And Steve's pretty sure he's right. Tony's head has left a dent in the wall behind himself, and he has a stated, happy look on his face that makes Steve wonder if he's accidentally concussed him. But he doesn't have very long to worry, because Tony's hand is slipping off his shoulder, and snaking it's way around his waist, tugging him forwards. Surprised, Steve tips, and ends up _really_ pressed against Tony, holding him up above the ground again, but now with both of _his_ legs in between Tony's spread ones. A crunch bounces through the room, and Steve looks up momentarily, Tony's entire body sunk about an inch into the plaster wall.

 

"Tell me to wrap them around your hips." And damn if Steve doesn't nearly pass out.

"Holy sh-" He stops himself, leaning forwards and pressing his teeth down into Tony's shoulder, through the wool. "You want me... to ask _you_ to- what?"

" _Fuck_ , Steve. What do you think?" Steve groans, the most guttural sound he's made in a _long_ time, and grips Tony's arms tighter.

"Language, Tony."

"Fuck you." Steve's teeth are bared.

" _Language_."

 

"Come _on_ , Rogers." Steve pushes his face into the crook of Tony's neck, and he bites there, trying to will himself not to cum in his sweats. It's been a long time. There's fingers on the underside of his chin, and then his head is being pulled away from the safety of Tony's coat, cheeks flaming red because _I know I'm turned on by this, but I really don't think I should be._ "Look at me. I want you to do this." Tony bucks, running his dress slacks against the seam of Steve's sweats, and Steve groans, trembling. He knows he's pinching too hard, and lets up, massaging the underside of Tony's biceps.

 

 

"Stop,"

"I don't think you want me to do that." He bucks again, this time catching the tip of Steve's dick through his pants with the zipper, and Steve's back muscles ripple, clenching against breaking the skin on Tony's arms, through the coat, with his fingernails.

"Stop." It's louder, but Tony seems to turn to liquid, sagging against Steve, and Steve reacts like any normal person, grabbing around Tony's waist, hoisting him up, and realizes, fleetingly, that Tony'd done that on purpose, _after_ there's teeth in his neck.

"No." He feels the words vibrate against the tendons, and he keens. Steve Rogers keens, and for now, he can't be embarrassed by it.

 

"Wrap your legs around my hips." Tony's head pulls back so fast that his teeth don't have enough time to detach completely from Steve's neck, stretching the skin, leaving red marks. His pupils are huge, bits of blood on his beard from the cuts Steve's left in Tony's lips.

"Yes, Captain." And then Steve is moving, hands finding their way to Tony's ass, and he squeezes, fingers dipping between cheeks, scratching against the starched fabric of dress pants. Tony chokes against the top of Steve's head, lips buried in his hair. Trembling breaths leave Steve's mouth, tongue poised at the perfect height to suck on Tony's clothed nipples, and he takes the opportunity, biting through his coat and dress shirt. Not being able to see is starting to pose a problem, and Steve knocks Tony into the doorjamb of his bedroom, a crack echoing through the living room.

"Tony, Tony you oka-"

"Do it again." Fingers claw at the back of Steve's neck, leaving drag marks, and Steve resists the urge to press Tony against the wall harder. The heels resting against the last knob of Steve's spine tighten, knocking almost painfully against the bone. " _Shit_ , do it again." But instead, Steve hooks his fingers underneath Tony's ass, knuckles brushing his thighs, and lifts, biceps straining, as he staggers towards his bed.

"Language."

 

Tony falls, spread eagle on the mattress, which sags, molding to his body. He grins, a cocky smirk, and drags a hand down his chest, bumping over nipples that stick through his shirt, gone see-through with Steve's spit. The arc reactor glows through it, the blue, patterned light almost brighter than usual, and Steve momentarily wonders if that's normal.

 

He watches as Tony fingers the zipper of his pants, and Steve takes a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes. But he can hear it, the soft sighs falling from Tony's lips like prayers as he begins touching himself, and that's fine, that's _fine_. Until the moaned, garbled version of Steve's name. He's fine, until that hits his ears, and something inside Steve Rogers snaps.

"Jesus, Tony. S-stop," And _I swear to god, if he says-_

"N _o._ "

 

Steve bends forwards, side forgotten, and squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as possible, tiny dots flowering out into the darkness behind his eyelids. He hears the bed shift, feels the warmth of Tony's presence, and prays to God that he'll somehow be able to keep his head. "Come on, Rogers. You know you want me." A finger tickles under his chin, then moves to trace his lips and Steve barely resists the urge to bite it.

"Please, Tony. Just... show some mercy. I don't want to hurt you." The warmth moves to the side of his head, and then Tony's beard is scratching the edge of his ear.

 

"But I want you to hurt me." Steve's fingers clench into a fist on his thigh, curling into his sweatpants. "And I think..." Tony's tugging on the underside of Steve's arms, and, despite himself, Steve straightens up, opening his eyes. Tony falls back a bit, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and for a second, Steve sees his rock-solid, playboy persona fall, and his eyelashes flutter, mouth going slack. But then he's refocused, just on a very different part of Steve's body. "And I think you wouldn't object if I hurt you too, would you?"

 

Steve arcs his back slightly, causing the soft, gray material to pull tighter against his dick, accentuating the line. He's always known he's 'above average', at least, since the serum, but judging by the look Tony's just given him, he's _way_ above average. The tip is touching his hipbone, he can feel it, and the _tiniest_ bit of the head peeks through the top band of his sweats, caught lightly in the string made for tying the waist, red and swollen. He bares his teeth, gripping the sides of his legs, and sighs. He takes a step forwards, and feels it swing

"No, I wouldn't."

 

Tony is up and on Steve in the span of one blink, and Steve rocks against him, feeling Tony through unzipped slacks, and groans. Tony creates a cradle for Steve to push into, falling backwards against the bed again, and Steve lets his hands drop to the head board.

"No, no, put them on me." Tony tugs on Steve's forearm. His fingernails dig into the edge of his wrist, pinching, and Steve looks  down. Tony is shattered, eyes blown wide, tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth. He's blazed out, like a person on one _hell_ of an acid trip, and that's when Steve decides _screw it._

 

He moves his left hand from the headboard to Tony's hair, leaving his right gripping the wood. He tugs, and Tony arches, bucking up into his touch, and Steve closes his eyes against it all.

"You like this?" And it really is a question, because Jesus, this is kinda weird, but Steve feels his cheeks turning pink, a telltale sign that he's turned on, and asks himself why he's never tried something like this before.

"Can't you tell?" Tony manages, bucking again. Steve watches a bead of sweat run down the side of his face, curl around his jaw and evaporate into his beard. He scrunches his nose up and presses down against Tony's thigh, feeling the resistance from Tony's pants. Tony's hands move like lightning, everywhere and nowhere on Steve's body at once, and _oh good lord, if he keeps moving like that, this is gonna be over for me embarrassingly fast.  
_

"Tony, Tony, slow down-"

 

But he just picks up the pace, pushing his leg harder and higher into Steve's crotch, to the point where he has to bend his knee to support the pressure. Steve's hand tightens in Tony's hair, and a muted whistle of pain leaves Tony's lips. Steve's lust-muddled brain can't comprehend the noise, and instead, he concentrates on trying to keep his knees from buckling. He doesn't want to crush Tony, and knows that if they do, he will. "A _h_ ,"

 

And this time, Steve does register, and brings his forehead down to tap against Tony's, cock throbbing.

"What?" His lips pull back, exposing his teeth in a pained snarl of pleasure.

"I, uh, I think you _may_ have ripped out, _ah,_ a chunk of my hair." He laughs, but Steve doesn't, and backs off quickly, panting.

 

"No, no I'm too careful for-" But he looks down at his left hand, curled in a fist, and opens it, horror blanching his face to a pasty, snowy white. Strings of black slip through his fingertips and float down to the bed, landing in between Tony's spread legs. "Oh, oh my god." Steve brings a shaking hand up to his mouth, covering it, trembling. "I think I'm gonna throw up."

"No, no Steve, look at me. Look at me." But he won't, just stares into space, watching the cracking crown molding, white paint peeling away in slivers, leaving the dark wood exposed. _Black hair, ripped out in his fist, just like that night_ -

 

He hears Tony move, the bed creaking, his clothes rustling. Tony lets out a muffled groan, and puts a hand on Steve's arm. His bicep jumps. "Come on, you know you like it." Steve's face twists, and he tries to pull away, but Tony's grip tightens. He sighs, an impatient little huff, and eases off the bed, coming to rest so that he's between Steve's knees.

 

"Are you afraid?" Steve shuts his eyes, trying to push Tony's words out, but they worm and dig and rest there.

 

Tony's right. Steve _is_ afraid, afraid that he'll hurt Tony, or worse, that he'll- No. He can't, and Steve's mouth pulls up, grimacing, as his crows feet spiral away from his eyes, squeezed shut. "Are you afraid to hurt me?" Tony takes Steve's hand, pulling it under his shirt and to his hip, forcing the fingers to curl. Steve takes a deep breath, torn between walking away of staying put. "Because it's wrong, and it's bad and we shouldn't?" Tony starts moving his body, lips brushing against Steve's neck, and Steve makes a sound deep in his throat, resolve slipping. Tony grins against Steve's neck, pressing his lips harder, letting a bit of tongue slip past, body undulating, and Steve loses his freaking mind.

 

"Fuck, fu _ck,_ " He pants, and grabs the sides of Tony's head with barely tempered strength, turning Tony's face so that their mouths move together, and Steve feels his teeth start to pull against Tony's tongue, drawing a metallic taste into his mouth. Tony's dick pulses out an obscene amount of precum, just from hearing Steve curse like that, staining his slacks and wetting Steve's already soaking sweats.

 

Steve's fingers shred the beck of Tony's suit jacket, and then the shirt, finally hitting skin, and Steve just _can't_ anymore. He hoists Tony up by the shoulder blades, pushing against his ass until he hooks his legs around Steve's waist. Then Tony's bouncing, as if he's riding Steve, and Steve feels his fingernails breaking through the skin on Tony's back, sinking about an inch, but Steve doesn't _care,_ just presses harder, pulling.

 

"I imagine," Steve pants, teeth knocking against Tony's in frantic little bursts. Tony's rutting against him and Steve's ears are ringing and _God_ , it's so good. "I imagine this, when I wrap a hand around myself in the shower. You know that? Drive me fucking _insane,_ you sonofabitch." Tony throws his head back, eyes shut, and Steve knows for a fact that if-

"Oh, my lord, Captain Rogers-" Steve snaps, arching away from Tony, and Tony gets the message, dropping a hand into Steve's lap, squeezing lightly, and then tugging upwards, working his dick through his sweats, adding just the right amount of friction for it to blow steam out of Steve's ears.

 

His abs clench, his teeth clench, his _everything_ clenches, and then he sees white, and his cock hurts, but it's in a good way, it's so good, and someone's screaming, he thinks it's Tony. It's so _high,_ so pure, and Steve has never felt anything like it.

 

He comes back to himself slowly, like a balloon barely tethered to it's string. Steve opens his eyes, and for a second, all he can see is white, with a little, glowing blue circle in the middle of it.But then Tony's laughing, and Steve shakes his head, confused, until a hand reaches through the white and taps his nose.

 

"Wow, that was amazing." Steve still can't form words yet, but his hands feel funny, like they're buried in marshmallow fluff. "But, uh, Rogers?" Tony's eyes appear through the haze, reaching out to grab at the floating stuff. "I think you ripped through the bed. These are feathers." _Ah, so the marshmallow is stuffing. Okay._ Steve starts to laugh, coming down from the high of cumming so hard and fast, feeling the stickiness drying on the inside of his pants. He stands up, Tony falling slightly, easing to the ground, completely wrung out, but in the best way possible. His own cum leaks through the front of unzipped slacks, staining the zipper.

 

Steve is fully intending to look at the damage his hands have caused in the mattress, but instead, his brain takes that exact second to remember the giant gash in his side, and he drops to one knee, stifling a yelp of pain. "Steve?"

 

And then he's being picked up, splayed on his back on the completely destroyed bed, and his eyes go unfocused, pain messing with his head. "Oh my god." Something makes a wet sound as a hand presses against Steve's ribs, and he curls in on himself. "What happened to you? Why's there so much blood?"

"Uh, it's, _ah,_ nothing. Just a little scrat _ch_." The last syllable ends in a squeak of pain when Tony pushes against the cut.

"Okay, just a scratch is a lie. This needs stitches."

 

"Amazing after sex care we got goin' on." Steve smirks. Tony doesn't laugh.

 

But it only takes him ten painful minutes for him to find the thread and needle, cut off Steve's completely blood-soaked shirt, and begin to stitch. And Steve, all joking aside, can't stop watching the way Tony moves, meticulous, caring, as the feathers settle around them like ash, some of them tinged red. Tony has a smear of Steve's blood on the front of his shirt, staining the white button down, and Steve's pretty sure the mattress is going to have blood on it as well, not to mention sweat, jizz and feathers.

 

Tony tugs on the end of the string, and ties it, Steve whistling in pain. Tony wipes him down with a wet washcloth, leaning over him. He smiles down at Steve, all crinkles and warmth, and Steve feels tears prick at the back of his eyes.

 

"Hey Tony?"

"Hm?" The worry line between his eyes comes back.

"Can you promise me something?" Tony nods, and Steve takes a breath, pulling himself into a sitting position, arm coming to wrap itself protectively around his ribs. "Never, never leave again, okay? Just... please. Never leave." He flicks his gaze back up to Tony's eyes, and Tony is biting his lip. He looks slightly confused, but then nods again, and clears his throat, nostrils flaring.

 

"Come here," It's gruff and forced, but Steve leans forwards, Tony's arms coming up and around Steve's shoulders, and Steve starts to cry lightly, actual tears for the first time in God-only-knows-how-long. Tony digs his chin into the top of Steve head, nuzzling. "Never again. Besides, I could never leave my best man, now could I?" Steve sniffs.

"I think I love you." It just slips out, and Steve tenses. Tony grins, a tear slipping out of the corner of his eye, and laughs wetly.

"I think I love you too."

 

 

 


End file.
